Finally, he looked up at her. “I would have,” he whispered. “I would have made that bargain for you.”
“Then how can you say that God’s answer was wrong? How can you say that you’d rather be dead? I thought your faith was stronger than your own physical ability.”
“I don’t know if it is.”
That confession broke her heart.
“Only you can decide that, honey.” She wiped the tears off her face. “This isn’t about your weakness, Dan. It’s about your strength. Are you strong enough to be weak? Even if you never stand again, will your faith be able to? After all these years of building all that strength, how strong are you, really?”
He was sobbing openly now, and she wanted to stop his pain. Forgetting her fear of being pushed away, she sat down on the bed next to him and put her arms around him.
He pulled her against him and held her as he wept.
After a moment, he let her go, and she sat up and looked down at him.
“I don’t think you . . . understand all the repercussions of this,” he said. “Do you realize that my paralysis might mean that you and I never have children? Are you ready to deal with that?”
“Dan, if that’s part of the bargain, so be it. I told God I wanted you any way I could get you. It’s worth it to me, honey.”
“But you want children. I want them.”
“So we could adopt. We don’t even know all the options yet. All’s not lost, Dan. Not unless you give up hope. Not unless you live your life wishing to die.”
He reached for her again, and she laid her head on his chest and held him, praying silently that God would bring healing to Dan’s spirit . . . if not to his legs.
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Late that night Dan woke in his hospital bed. He looked at Jill and saw that she lay twisted on the vinyl recliner she’d been sleeping in. She couldn’t be comfortable.
He stared up at the ceiling, thinking of their talk tonight. Her question for him had hit dead center.
Are you strong enough to be weak?
He honestly didn’t know the answer.
What about when they sent him home? When people stared and children whispered, when he had to park in disabled parking spaces, when he had to give up his job? When his wife had to watch him struggling and had to help him with the simplest tasks? Was he strong enough to withstand all that?
He reached for the Bible lying on his bed table. For a moment he stared at it, wondering what he should open it to. The passages where Christ healed the lame? Or the ones where he didn’t?
He turned to 2 Corinthians and turned the pages, scanning, looking for one particular verse. He found it, highlighted in chapter 12. He had made notes beside it, as if he had a clue what it was all about. He really hadn’t known anything when he’d written those notes.
But he knew now.
“For when I am weak, then I am strong.”
Trying to remember the context, he went back to verse seven and read hungrily, desperate for something that would speak to him in Paul’s words.
To keep me from becoming conceited because of these surpassingly great revelations, there was given me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
He read those words over and over, analyzing them in his mind, wondering if he really understood what true strength was. All these years, he’d been so proud of his strength. He’d worn it like a royal robe. He’d endured teasing and jeering from his friends, but all the while he’d known that they really did admire him.
And that admiration meant everything to him.
Maybe it all boiled down to pride.
He turned to the concordance at the back of his Bible and looked for the word “weak.” He scanned the listing there and decided to turn to 1 Corinthians 1:27.
But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are, so that no one may boast before him. It is because of him that you are in Christ Jesus, who has become for us wisdom from God—that is, our righteousness, holiness and redemption. Therefore, as it is written: “Let him who boasts boast in the Lord.”
Had he boasted before God? Had he put his faith more in the strength in his own body than he had in the power of Christ in him?
For when I am weak, then I am strong.
Maybe that power of Christ within him would surpass any physical strength he’d had before. People were watching him, pitying him, probably expecting the worst.
Was it possible that God could use him through this? By being confined to a wheelchair, could he become an even mightier soldier in the Lord’s kingdom?
Hope sprang up inside him, a young, fragile bud.
Jill had been right. How dare he wish he was dead when the Lord had answered so many prayers for him?
Maybe it wasn’t that God was finished with him but that he had a new task ahead. Maybe God was merely sending him in a new direction. Maybe he should think of it as the beginning of a new era instead of the end of his life.
“My faith in you doesn’t rest on whether you heal me,” Dan whispered. “But I’d sure appreciate it if you could give me the strength . . . the strength to be weak.” Tears ran down his face again. He wiped them away. He was getting so tired of them.
Jill stirred and looked over at him. “Dan? Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He wiped his face on his sleeve. “Come here.”
She got up and came to his bed, bent over him.
“No,” he said. “I mean here.” He patted the mattress beside him. “Help me scoot over, then lie down with me.”
A smile softened her lips, and she helped him move. Then she got onto the bed and stretched out next to him. He pulled her head onto his chest and held her the way he used to do at night before they fell asleep.
“It’s going to be all right,” he whispered. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
He felt Jill’s tears warmly wetting his shirt. “You have no idea how I’ve wished I could hear those words.”
He knew. He had long wished he could say them. “I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too.” She kissed him, then laid her head back down.
Dan kept stroking her hair, and after a while, he felt her body relaxing into restful sleep.
And he felt strong again.
Chapter Ninety
Gordon’s wife’s clothes smelled of mothballs and old perfume, and Ashley could tell by the condition they were in that few of them were new. Still, someone would be happy to get them, and they would help raise money for the families.
Stan had come shortly after she’d shown up and was working on the furnace near the back of the house. She felt the heat come on and was glad that the rooms would warm up soon. The temperature outside had dropped ten degrees in the last couple of hours, and the house felt refrigerated.
She took an armload of clothes to one of the boxes she had on the bed and began folding them and putting them in. As she did, she looked around at the framed pictures Gordon had of his wife. She had been a pretty woman when she was young.
She saw a scrapbook on the bed table. Sitting down on the bed, she opened it and began to flip through. She saw pictures of the two of them when they were her age, so many years ago. Alma was laughing in almost every one. There had probably been lots of laughter in this house before she died.
She turned the pages and found memories of vacations on the beach, in the mountains, at the Grand Canyon.
And then sh
e saw a naval unit, decked out in uniform. She studied the faces until she found Gordon, seventy-five pounds lighter and thirty-five years younger. At the front of the group was a sign that said “NAVEODFAC.”
“Is it getting warm in here yet?” Stan came in and raised his hand to the vent.
“I think so. You must have fixed it.”
“Good.” He looked around at all the boxes she’d packed. “You’ve done a good job. I’m glad you’re feeling better, after yesterday.”
“So where is Donald Merritt now?” she asked.
“He’s in jail. No bond is being set. You don’t have to worry.”
She didn’t say anything, but just kept folding.
“If you want, I can load these into my car and take them to Aunt Aggie’s for the rummage sale.”
“Yeah, that’d be good.”
He picked up the photo album next to her. “Pictures of Gordon?”
“Yeah.” She pointed to the naval photo and picked him out. “I think that’s him.”
Stan chuckled.
She heard Gordon hobbling up the hall, coming to check on them. Gordon stopped at the door and leaned on one crutch. “You did it, Stan. It’s actually warming up.”
“Glad to do it,” Stan said. “Hey, Gordon, when were you in the Navy?”
“Back in the sixties,” he said. “Fought in Vietnam, as a matter of fact.”
“You look very dignified here.”
Gordon took the photo album and chuckled. “Musta been 1965. Before my bride started feeding me so good.”
“So what did all those letters stand for?”
“Naval EOD Facility. It was an electronic maintenance division.” He closed the book and looked at his wife’s dresses laid out on the bed. “Her church dresses,” he said. “Somebody oughta really enjoy those. I hope they hang them up real nice, so folks can see what good shape they’re in.”
Stan loaded the boxes into his car and left Ashley to finish sorting the rest of the clothes. He would take them to Aunt Aggie when he got off work this afternoon. For now, he needed to get back to the station.
The old man’s emotion over all of his wife’s things being boxed up and taken away kept playing through Stan’s mind. He wondered what he would be like when he was old, if Celia went before he did. How would he stand to be alone?
The pictures in Gordon’s photo album kept flashing through his mind, snapshots of a life well lived. He wished he’d met Alma Webster. She seemed like a bright and pleasant woman.
And Gordon looked as if he’d always been pleasant, too.
He thought of that Naval picture again, and the sign in front of the division—NAVEODFAC. Gordon hadn’t really explained what the letters stood for. Stan told himself that he’d ask him when he saw him again, but as he went into the station, he found that his curiosity had gotten the best of him.
He went to his desk, turned his computer on, and checked all his messages. But his mind went back to that picture.
Finally, to satisfy his curiosity, he opened his search engine and typed in the letters NAVEODFAC.
Several things came up, so he opened the first one.
And then he understood why his mind had refused to let it go.
The letters stood for Naval Explosive Ordnance Disposal Facility. Gordon had served in the Navy as an explosives man.
He knew how to build bombs.
Stan’s face grew hot. He got up, staring down at his monitor, as a new paradigm of possibilities lined up in his mind. Could it be that Gordon had something to do with the bombs at Icon?
He had been in the building that day, even though he was no longer employed there. He was angry, resentful . . .
And he’d lied to Stan about what he’d done in the Navy.
Stan had to think. He sat back down and pulled up all the information he had at his disposal on Gordon Webster. There were no arrests, his driver’s license was current. . . .
He printed out Gordon’s driver’s license picture and tore it from the printer. If he showed it to the guy at Budget Truck Rental, would he recognize Gordon as the one who’d rented the truck?
Could it be that Merritt was telling the truth?
No way. Stan was racing up the wrong road. Gordon couldn’t have had anything to do with the bombing. Not that humble grandfatherly man, with his gentle smile and his kind face.
Then again, he’d had a lot to be angry about. The death of his wife, the loss of his job, the unjust disappearance of his retirement. What if he’d been so angry and upset that he’d schemed to get even?
He could imagine someone in Gordon’s position targeting Merritt, maybe, but not an entire building full of his coworkers. And the fact that Gordon had ordnance experience certainly didn’t prove he was a killer.
Still, Stan had to investigate and see what he could find out. He took the picture and headed to the rental company.
As he drove, he tried to remember what Ashley had told the FBI yesterday.
She had described water jugs surrounding the bomb itself, and they had concluded that it was some kind of fuel that had probably been dollied in, a few jugs at a time. Whoever had brought them in had not been noticed. Merritt could have done it at night, but none of the security guards had seen him bringing anything unusual in.
If the bomber had done it in broad daylight, it must have been disguised. Anyone who’d seen it had probably believed it was water for the coolers. It had to be someone familiar, someone people were used to seeing there.
There had been a large amount of fertilizer used in the construction of the truck bomb. The company that sold it had no record of delivering it. Could Gordon have bought it himself and delivered it to some hiding place?
Part of him hoped it wouldn’t be true. He could live with Merritt being the culprit.
But no one would believe that Gordon Webster had done it.
Chapter Ninety-One
Stan hurried into the Budget office, anxious to show the desk clerk Gordon’s picture. A couple stood in front of the desk, and a man waited for his turn. Stan stepped in front of them.
“Dude, you’re back,” the guy said.
Stan leaned on the counter and handed him the copy of Gordon’s license. “Do me a favor and tell me if this is the man who rented that truck.”
He studied the picture, squinting his eyes, as if trying to remember. “Yeah, man, I think that’s the dude all right. Sweet old man. You don’t think he—?”
“Thanks,” Stan said. “That’s all I need to know. I’ll need you to come in and give a statement later today.”
“No problem, man. I’ll come as soon as I get off.” As Stan started toward the door, the kid yelled behind him. “Hey, did this dude help that Merritt guy blow up the building?”
Stan didn’t answer him as he raced back out to his car. The moment he was in it, he called the FBI. “Mills,” he said when the agent answered his phone. “I think you’ve got the wrong man.”
As he explained what he’d learned, he raced back to Gordon’s. Afraid for Ashley’s safety, he called Gordon’s house as soon as he’d hung up. The old man answered.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Gordon, Stan here.” He hoped he sounded natural. “I need to tell Ashley something. Could you put her on?”
“Sure, hold on.”
Stan’s heart raced faster than his car.
“Hello?”
“Ashley, I want you to listen carefully. Tell Gordon that you forgot to leave the key for Clara and that you have to run to Jill’s. Then get out of there immediately. Do you understand?”
There was a long pause. “Why?”
“I can’t explain it now. Please, just do it. And act as naturally as you can.”
“Okay.”
As he hung up he prayed that she would get out before Gordon knew they were onto him.
Chapter Ninety-Two
Ashley hung up the phone and looked around for her keys. “Uh . . . I have to go. I forgot to leave Clara a key.”
> Gordon seemed to stiffen. “Stan called to tell you you’d forgotten to leave a key?”
She swept her hair behind her ears. “No . . . uh . . . he was talking to Jill or something, and she asked him to remind me.”
She started past him. “I’ll come back and finish later . . . after I do this.”
She heard Gordon hobbling into the bedroom, heard a drawer being pulled out. What was going on? Why would Stan insist that she leave like this?
“Ashley.”
“Yeah?” She turned around. Gordon was holding a gun.
She sucked in a breath and stepped back.
“Honey, I hate to do this,” he said, and she could see on his face that he truly did. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, but I see how things are playing out.”
“What do you mean? Nothing’s playing out. I just have to go.”
“Stan told you to get out of here, didn’t he?”
“No. He just said—”
“He knows.” His finger was over the trigger, ready to squeeze. “You’re not going anywhere, honey. I need you to drive me somewhere. You and I, we’re going to get out of this town. I want you to walk with me out to your car.”
He abandoned his crutches and walked on his cast toward her. Sticking the gun in her ribs, he turned her around.
“What are you doing?” she cried. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”
His face was red now, and he spoke through his teeth as he ushered her out the door. “I’m not taking the blame. They can’t pin this on me.” He got her to the car, opened the passenger door, and made her slide over behind the wheel.
“Start the car and let’s go,” he said, keeping the gun in her ribs.
She did as she was told and backed the car out. “Pin what on you?”
“I’m not going down for killing a hundred and fifty-three people! It was that picture. You shouldn’t have been snooping through my stuff, Ashley.”
Ashley almost lost control of the car. “A hundred and fifty-three people?” she repeated. “You helped Merritt kill my mother and a hundred and fifty-two other people?”
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